


In Transit

by voodoochild



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:42:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Liz Shaw cannot stay, that much is certain. She and the Brigadier make the most of the time they have left. Set post-"Inferno". Written for Porn Battle IX, for the prompt "stay".</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Transit

He will not ask, cannot ask.

She's far too good for UNIT, and they've always known it. Even the Doctor, he thinks, must know. Liz Shaw - Doctor Liz Shaw, he reminds himself, she has multiple doctorates - is brilliant in ways that Alistair cannot even begin to imagine. To keep her here any longer is akin to caging a beautiful bird.

She'd probably hit him for that analogy, come to think of it.

So he will keep his silence, through the last night they spend together. He lends a hand in packing her flat up, and they strip it with almost military efficiency to just the sheets on the bed, some files on the table, leftover takeaway Chinese in the refrigerator. He'd brought over a bottle of wine and they'd toasted - to UNIT, to him, to her, to the Doctor and his rattletrap car, to Cambridge beating Oxford in the rugby finals - and they tacitly agree not to mention the lateness of the hour, the relative impropriety of their actions, or his wife. Liz knows as well as anyone else that he's married, and she knows better than most that he and Fiona have barely spoken for the past month.

They should look ridiculous, drinking wine out of paper cups, sitting on (or in his case, against) her luggage, laughing over Benton's latest mishap in the mess hall. But this is the happiest he's been in too short a time with her and so he kisses her without thinking. Pulls her into his lap and allows himself the indulgence of what she feels and tastes like. She gasps against his mouth, something that might be his name, and brings her hand up to his jaw, trailing her fingers over the edge of his moustache and down his neck. He shudders, and she makes a pleased noise, repeating the motion, running her nails through the hair at the back of his neck, just above his collar. She pulls away long enough to go to her knees, turning around so that she can settle astride him, and his head tilts back at the feel of her, warm and soft, pressed against him.

Whatever his sins in breaking his marriage vows, he is a gentleman, and does not presume to touch her until she looks down at him, a smile on her face.

"Do you need a written invitation, Brigadier?"

He does not. Verbal will suffice, and he will also never confess what the sound of his title on her lips does to him. He watches her as he undoes each button on her shirt, drawing his thumbs over the skin of her stomach. She's ticklish, and he smiles to himself as she gives an adorable shriek and pitches forward in his arms. He gets the last button undone, and trails kisses over the warm skin of her collarbone. He's just edging his mouth down to where her eminently practical white brassiere covers her small breasts when she shakes her head, admonishing him. He finds himself being divested completely of his uniform jacket (he'd conceded most of the buttons, his tie, his hat, and his shoes when they'd been packing - it would have been more than a bit ridiculous of him to be doing housework in his full uniform).

If he'd thought she'd be finished with her undressing of him, he's sorely mistaken. Liz doesn't do anything by halves. She is a scientist, after all, slow and methodical and curious about the reactions her experimentation produces. She flips his collar up, pulls his tie off, and commences popping open the buttons of his shirt. He busies himself with moving her hair to one side, letting it fall in waves down her back, and kissing just under her jaw. He works his way downwards again, intending to flick his tongue over her breasts like he's been thinking about doing for hours, but she intercepts him again, a hand in his hair.

"We have time for that."

He shakes his head sadly, touching her cheek. "You know we haven't. We don't have nearly enough time."

It's a grim reminder - this is to be their last time as well as their only time. She sets her jaw, pulls his vest free from his trousers and eagerly touches the bared skin of his chest. He pulls the vest over his head, tossing it to the side and seeking out her mouth again. The kiss is much different this time; searing and greedy and desperate never to end. She unsnaps her brassiere, tosses it to the side, and allows him to taste his fill. The loud cry she gives when he finally touches his mouth to her bare breast, sucking and licking at one pale nipple, is something he'll never, ever forget. His hands slide under her legs (_"of all the times to be wearing trousers"_, he thinks) and he breaks away to whisper in her ear.

"May I?"

She winds her arms around his neck and moves against him in response, and he gets first to his knees, then his feet, with her in his arms. He makes his way across the room and lays her down on the bed. While he wishes he could have the luxury of just looking at her, hair spread out like a copper halo, long legs bent, framed against white sheets, she won't let him, pulling him by the belt down with her.

He assists her - purely unselfishly, of course - with removing her trousers, and dear God, those legs are even longer than he remembers. They'd been astonishing wrapped around his waist, and he runs a possessive hand up the length of one. First the delicate bones of her ankle, then the curve of calf, slightly ticklish skin behind the bend of her knee, then strong, smooth thigh. She shivers as he allows his hand to brush the edge of her knickers (pink, of all colors, with white flowers) and strokes a finger slowly along the crease up to her hip. He raises an eyebrow, and she nods, a pleading note in her eyes she won't voice - _yes, please, I want you to touch me_.

His fingers move against her, and he watches her face for her reaction. Slow, at first, touching her through the cotton she's already soaked, and Christ, he almost comes at the way she moans and arches her back and snaps her hips for more. He can feel the cotton drag against her, and she wriggles to get his fingers in just the right spot. Other women would take his hand in theirs, show him by touch exactly what they like, but Liz does not. He does not think she is a woman accustomed to intimate touch, and he wants to remedy that as soon as possible.

"Let me see you, hmm?" he asks, tugging at the elastic to her knickers.

"Yes, all right." She slides the knickers down her legs, kicks them off, but reaches for his belt. "Quid pro quo, Alistair."

He isn't quite ready to admit just how much her use of his given name affects him; she is always professional, even when they socialize outside of UNIT, and this might be the first time she's ever uttered it. The fact that she's completely nude in bed with him just makes it even better, even if she is an utter hellion who's decided to explore while she's also attempting to divest him of his clothes. Her clever fingers have wrapped around his prick, and are stroking lightly up and down, not firm enough that he's in danger of losing himself, but teasing enough to make him kick his trousers off and pin her arms to her sides.

"That is quite enough of that, else I'll be completely useless."

She laughs again, and he resolves to reproduce the effect as much as he's able. She's even more beautiful with her eyes sparking in amusement, and he'd never noticed before, but her nose wrinkles at the bridge when she laughs. "You're an intelligent fellow. Are you informing me that you couldn't find a single thing to do to repay me if I decided to wank you off right now?"

His brain stutters at both the vulgarity of her words and the image they conjure, and he has to make a concentrated effort to recover. But he also has a very good idea of how he's going to proceed.

"Do you know, I believe I'm going to skip straight to the repayment."

He releases her wrists and moves down the length of her body, resting eye-level with her hip. Her breath catches as she realizes his intent, and her legs tense, but part to allow him to settle between them. As he bends his head to touch his tongue to her wet sex, she gives this beautiful, broken gasp.

Tomorrow will come, nothing can stop that, not UNIT, not even the Doctor. They will live in the space between.

They have no other choice.


End file.
